Acclimatize
by trufflemores
Summary: 1.02. Becoming The Flash is an adjustment.
Swaying in the center of the lab, Barry closes his eyes, trying to regain his composure. He doesn't understand what's happening to him: one moment, he's _fine_ , and the next he feels like he's going to be sick, dizzy and nauseous and trembling with exhaustion. It's been happening for days now – not that he's told Cisco or Caitlin or Dr. Wells about it.

Hiding it isn't his smartest move, but he _just_ woke up from a coma. He knows that as soon as he admits that he's in less than perfect health, they'll strap him to a bed and keep him there until they're satisfied. And, hey, if they decide a few blood samples wouldn't hurt, some genetic tests would be in order, (just a couple of tests, really, and think of all the _good_ it could do), Barry is doubly convinced he doesn't want to tell them about it.

He's not a lab rat. (Well, he is. Just not _that_ kind.)

Iris doesn't knock, but her voice precedes her, giving Barry just enough to gather his composure and pointedly _not_ pass out in front of her. At least he's not in the suit – Cisco and Caitlin can't spy on his vitals when he's wearing pedestrian clothes. Still, focusing on Iris' words takes a supreme effort, complicated by a burgeoning headache.

He thinks about taking the afternoon off, certain Singh would give him that much if he actually threw up (or maybe he wouldn't; Singh's moods could be incredible, prompting absolute compliance or resignation). It also falls flat given his recent history of traveling when he's supposed to be at work and masquerading as an actual police officer. He's on a tight lease – too tight to push his luck.

( _It's been nine months_ doesn't even occur to him. It's been three days since he went to Starling City. As far as Barry is concerned, no amount of lightning changes that reality).

Then Iris mentions _Stagg Industries_ and Barry resists the urge to groan, exhaling an apology and promising to change into more formal wear.

"How fast can you get home?" Iris challenges, eyebrows up.

Barry looks aside and calculates off the cuff: "Pretty fast."

Before he's forced to sit down and take some deep breaths to quell the nausea rising in his gut, a helpful distraction arrives in the form of Detective Pretty Boy.

 _His name is Eddie_.

No, his name is Detective Pretty Boy, and Iris and Barry lambasted him a mere four days ago because really? He kept _score_ when it came to arrests? If that wasn't Captain Douchebag material, Barry didn't know what was.

Except he looks at Iris with these fond eyes, this unfairly bright and sweep-off-your-feet charming smile, and when he moves in for a greeting he very politely does not kiss her.

Irritation forces out a, "Guys, I know, remember? You don't have to hide from me."

Because, oh, right – he sort of went MIA for _nine months_.

It's one thing to look at his Netflix account and see how many new TV episodes have appeared, what new shows are available, and how many movies he hasn't seen. It's equally startling to scroll through his abandoned blog, see how many new threads have opened up on different forums, what sort of characters have risen to power in his absence. And of course it's dizzying just to think about how many books he hasn't read, how many assignments he hasn't logged, how many reports he has to write.

But it's an entirely _other_ thing to see Iris kiss Detective _His-Name-Is-Eddie_ Thawne.

He's not bitter. Really. He's not. Bitter is _Go away_. Bitter is _Don't make out in front of me_. Bitter is _How could you?_

Barry Allen is Very Not Bitter.

(It would be _so_ nice if that were true.)

Swallowing back the less charitable thoughts, Barry huffs, "I should – go get changed."

"Yes you should," Iris says, holding onto Eddie's tie and smiling up at him. "We don't want to be late."

Barry resists the urge to snap, _No, please, just casually drape yourselves over my desk and make out. I insist._

Instead, he puts on a stiff smile and makes his way downstairs.

He's dizzier than he thought, almost blacking out at the bottom of the stairs, holding onto the handrail as he regains his balance.

"You look like hell, kid," a passing cop informs him.

And Barry thinks, _Feel it, too_.

But he straightens instead, brushing off the comment, and focuses on the task at hand.

Formal wear. He can do this.

Baby steps.

(Which lasts exactly until he reaches the curb, taking off at a full run.)

. o .

The rest is . . . blurry.

Barry doesn't wear contacts, but he can't get anything to focus properly. Shoving his feet through the holes in the pants and his arms through the sleeves of the shirt, he carefully buttons it up, ignoring his shaking fingers. He gets it all in place, tugging anxiously at his collar, wondering exactly how pissed off Iris would be if he failed to show.

 _She has Eddie_.

Barry grunts, straightening his sleeves. Yeah, no.

He's got this.

. o .

Barry puts a protective arm around Iris' shoulder, feeling rage and terror strangling in his throat.

 _Don't move,_ he tells himself. There are dozens of eyewitnesses. The bad guys have guns, but the bad guys haven't started shooting anyone. Going on the offensive could escalate the situation. _Don't move_.

Then a security guard falteringly steps forward. All six guys hold up their guns.

The security guard swallows, belatedly realizing this isn't a robbery, it's about to be a homicide, and Barry thinks, _Okay, now move_.

. o .

Barry is outside and he can't breathe, he can't _breathe_ – he staggers, crumpling against the trash bin, vision blacked out.

He clings to consciousness for two whole seconds before the riptide drags him down, down, down.

. o .

". . . _better excuse than_ you fainted."

Joe doesn't believe him.

 _Of course you don't believe me. You never believe me_.

He tries not to let his frustration show – after all, he's got a pounding headache; argument is _not_ his forte under these conditions – but he's a little short with him, regardless. A little _just give me a horizontal surface in a dark room, please_. Luckily, the words stay locked away: he doesn't have the energy to speak, so he doesn't bring it up. And Joe walks away.

 _You never believe me_.

. o .

At the lab, he can't stop shaking.

He's breathing hard through his mouth, sweaty and sick and nervous because _fuck_ , something is wrong with him, something is really, really wrong with him and dying does not feel like an altogether improbable outcome. Holding onto the edge of the desk, he can't focus on anything aside from the astounding pain in his head and crushing nausea keeping his feet planted to the floor. Moving is not an option, so he waits it out, waits until the spell passes and he wants to cry from relief.

He's still exhausted, his clothes are once more overly-clingy, and his mouth is painfully dry, but there's a compelling pile of papers to draw his attention. Sitting down slowly, he reaches for one, pulling it in front of him and putting his head in his hands as the words blur in front of his eyes.

 _Eye strain_ , he thinks, closing them, pressing his fists against them.

Maybe it's a side effect – Caitlin said he could experience side effects after being in a coma and Iris concurred after Barry asked her why she was at all worried and should _he_ be worried?

Heart palpitations – except his heart is fast now, too, and how could he _possibly_ know what was normal anymore? _Let it go_. It seems like good advice.

Except Barry can't concentrate, his head _really_ hurts, and a gnawing sense of dread settles in his chest with every passing second.

 _Relax_.

He reaches up to loosen his collar again, sweaty and gross and _I-just-want-to-go-home_.

By three o'clock – a mere forty-five minutes after returning from their botched luncheon at Stagg Industries – Barry pushes himself painstakingly to his feet. He hobbles downstairs, staying out of sight as much as possible, but at the base he almost walks right into Captain Singh.

Singh gives him a quick once-over, whistles, and orders bluntly, "Allen. Go home."

Barry could cry, instead nodding slowly, listlessly, and padding into the elevator. It takes a herculean effort not to sink to the floor and cradle his head in his hands as he descends to the lobby, blending into the eclectic mix of pedestrians and officers and criminals.

He thinks, _I left my satchel_ and considers going back upstairs to get it. His feet know better, carrying him to a cab. His dry "Star Labs" elicits an amused _humph_ from the driver.

"Place is locked down tight," the cabbie reminds him. "No one goes there anymore."

Barry blinks, momentarily dumbstruck, before recalling that _yeah, not everyone knows it's the secret lair of a would-be superhero. Get it together._ "Sorry. I get them mixed up: Mercury Labs, please."

The cabbie says, "You got it" and Barry focuses on not throwing up for the fifteen minutes it takes to get there.

The two labs are within easy walking distance, but it still takes an agonizingly long time for Barry to cross the quarter-mile separating them. The final fifty yards pass in a blur; miraculously, he keeps his feet underneath him as he comes to a halt in the cortex. Two people startle out of their seats; Harrison says sharply, "Barry?"

Barry makes a noncommittal sound, slumping heavily onto a gurney. "I . . . may have a problem," he admits in a sandpapery rasp, feeling equal parts sick with guilt and fear. Even so, looking around, he feels some of the tension abating. There really aren't any crazy instruments of torture –

( _Oh if only he_ knew _—that biopsy would never be forgotten_.)

And Caitlin's steady, confident presence takes away some of the urgency of his concerns. _You're not dying_. It's written in her posture as much as her words, harsh, rebuking, but steady.

 _In science, we share – we do not keep secrets_.

Feeling strangely guilty over _that_ , he tries not to let it get to him. Cisco and Caitlin are nice, but they're still Wells' colleagues before Barry's – whatever.

 _Friends?_

Coworkers.

Cisco's pretty cool and Caitlin's pretty nice – exempting the whole Ronnie thing. Putting it up to Wells, Barry asks, "Ronnie was her fiancé?"

"Yes." Then, struggling to encapsulate it in a few words, Dr. Wells says, "He is . . . missed."

Barry thinks about pursuing it – lets it go as the throbbing in his head reasserts itself. All he really wants is a miracle cure ( _mirakuru, won't actually hit the market for a couple more months but it'll raise hell when it does_ ), so he listens to Caitlin. Only blinks when she breaks out _mini-stroke_ because _that_ is not helping. Wells is calm – _this is completely fine_ , his posture says. And he doesn't know how shitty Barry feels but he's Dr. Wells, he just _knows_ things. If he says it's so, then it is.

Wells says _run_ and Barry says _how fast?_

They shift to a treadmill and Barry's been clocked out for about eighty percent of the conversation heretofore but he knows most household treadmills only go up to about twelve miles per hour and yeah, Cisco's tech is great, but can it withstand three _hundred_ miles per hour? Cisco says it can. Cisco also thinks controlling the weather is cool. ( _He apologized_.)

Okay. Up and at 'em.

Running feels good – surprisingly so. There's something _about_ it that Barry loves: it's more than just the novelty, it's the act itself. The machine holds up and Barry falls into a comfortable rhythm on the treadmill. He knows how fast he's moving, but with the rest of the world slowed down, it feels like a brisk jog: his feet tap the machine lightly, his lungs and heart working in tandem, slow and steady.

He thinks, _I should take up mountain climbing_ because his lung capacity is outstanding and his muscles just _do not tire_. They're relentless, powerful, unbreakable like steel: the mildest of burns does not even begin to precipitate until he really starts to push himself, running instead of jogging, sprinting when he needs to. Even that feels good, like the burn is a reminder that lightning has teeth and running should never be effortless but a hard and joyful endeavor because it is possible.

Everything goes superbly until he hears the warbled undertone of Dr. Wells' over the intercom and then the world goes belly-up and vanishes under the dark turf of infinity.

. o .

"I passed out again?" Barry asks, confused, because he only lost his focus for a moment, how do you pass out and not see it coming?

"Total metabolic failure brought on by acute hypoglycemia," Caitlin explains, Cisco on his other side as he stands.

 _Hypoglycemia._ It's a word lodged in the textbooks of his brain somewhere that hasn't been revisited since high-school biology. Pulling the tome off the mental stacks and brushing off its dusty cover, Barry listens to Caitlin speak, trying to recall details.

 _Okay, so my blood sugar's low_. "I'm not eating enough," he says out loud. "So, an IV bag and I'm good to go."

"Try forty," Dr. Wells says, and Barry turns, eyebrow arched, to stare at the full complement of saline bags. "Guess you were thirsty."

 _That might be an understatement_.

He wonders what the hell the lightning really is, how it can need that much, how it can burn off, resolving to test out the theory under more controlled circumstances later.

There is so much he doesn't _know_. Like why he can make the world slow down at times, but other times it only works when he's running. Why stopping is such a challenge when avoiding obstacles is so much easier. ( _Just takes practice_.) Why he doesn't ache after running, but he does after missing a meal.

It all makes sense, looking at the empty bags and feeling a renewed sense of stability: the ground level, his mind clear.

Frustration hits him first: how could he be so stupid? _Of course_ he's not eating enough: he's burning calories like a slow-moving _plane_ , he needs jet fuel. Three hearty meals a day can't cut it. His caloric intact is still in the low-2000s. According to Cisco's taco calculation, he needs to be eating almost two hundred _times_ that, in the realm of 400,000 calories per _day_.

That . . . is a lot of tacos.

Not to mention it takes _time_ to eat that many tacos, money to buy that many tacos, and a desire to keep eating _that many tacos_ every day.

 _Doesn't have to be tacos_.

It doesn't matter: he'll get sick of _everything_ at that speed.

"For Mexican, I recommend Tito's on Bruckner Avenue" Joe chimes in, stepping inside the cortex. "Best burritos in the city."

 _This day just keeps getting better._

"Detective West," Wells says, ever-cordial, and Barry is grateful he steps up because Joe's presence can't be good news. "What brings you to Star Labs?"

Joe points a finger at Barry, saying, "When I couldn't find you at your lab, I started doing a little research. Turns out there's been reports of a red streak around the city. Stopping muggers. Rescuing people from burning buildings."

 _All good things_ , Barry thinks, defensive.

But Joe's expression does not say _Way to go, slugger._

It says, _This isn't your job._

"You . . . didn't tell him we were working together," Dr. Wells says, surprised.

 _Because I knew he wouldn't understand_.

Tired and wrung out and craving at least one of those eight hundred and five tacos, Barry begins, "Joe, I can explain."

He's too slow, though: "You already have a job in law enforcement, Barry. I suggest you get back to it."

 _I'm not a kid anymore, Joe. I know what I'm doing._

Caitlin defaults – "Don't look at me, I'm on your side."

Dr. Wells justifies – "We all want what's best for Barry."

 _Thank you._

But Joe is utterly unmoved. "If you wanted what was best for Barry, you'd try to talk him out of this lunacy instead of encouraging him going out there _risking his life_."

And Barry thinks, _This is not a game._ "You saw a _man_ control the _weather_ ," he interjects sharply. "What are the police gonna do against someone like that?" Frustration builds in him, impassioning his words even though Joe's face does not say _convince me_.

It says, _Say your piece. I've made up my mind_.

"Since the particle accelerator explosion, we suspect there may be more like him."

It's such a _logical_ thought, Barry can't honestly understand why Joe is so _against_ it. _I'm just doing my job. We're here to help people, aren't we?_

Joe folds his arms and jabs, "And you're gonna do what? _Catch them?_ Are you _insane?_ You think because you can run real fast that you're invincible. You're _not_. You're just a kid." _I'm twenty-five_. " _My kid_."

And something snaps.

"I'm _not your kid_ , Joe," he retorts. "And you're not my father." He thinks, _Stop now_ but he can't. It's out there.

 _You wanna do this now? Out here? Fine_.

"My father is sitting in Iron Heights. _Wrongfully_ convicted." _My dad did not kill my mom—_

 _ **Yes, he did.**_

"You were wrong about him," Barry says, standing, pushing back against that wall of immovability, _shouting_ at him because he is not responsible for Barry's life. "And you're wrong about this. Now, I may not be able to help him, but if I can save someone from a burning building or stop some armed thieves, _I'm gonna do it_. And you can't stop me."

It's abundantly clear to Barry how hard those words hit: _I can outrun you now. You can't chase me down in a police cruiser anymore. I'm not invincible, but I am unstoppable._

With that, he looks at Joe – at the fracturing, startled remains of coolness across his expression – and says very clearly, " _So don't try_."

Joe speaks and it sinks like a knife into Barry's gut. "You think you're so smart. All of you." The worst part is, he _isn't shouting_. "But you don't know what you don't know," Joe says. "And I hope that you're clever enough to figure it out," pointing at Wells because _you are responsible for this_ , "before somebody," at Barry, "gets killed."

Joe walks out and it feels like disownment.

Barry sits back against the bed, exhaling. Not sure what to say in the wake of Joe's departure. Torn between guilt and shame and righteous anger.

 _I'm not wrong_ , he thinks, pushing himself to his feet. He's still dizzy, and hungry, and he can't make smart decisions like this, but he knows that with absolute surety: _I'm not wrong_.

Exhaling, he pushes himself off the bed, unsure why he feels so choked up if he's _right_.

"I'm going home," he tells them stiffly.

Caitlin says, "We really should—"

But Wells interjects politely, "Good night, Barry."

 _Night_.

God, he needs to stop losing time.

. o .

Barry is up late raiding the kitchen.

Every time he approaches what he thinks is satisfactorily full, he sees a carton of eggs or a stack of bacon, a pile of to-be-toasted bread, a full bag of pancake mix, a box ( _four boxes_ ) of cereal, on and on and on until the cabinets look distinctly sparser. He can't stop it, even though he's tired enough to sleep ( _stop losing time_ ) and shitty enough to want to lie down. He can eat whatever Joe scrounges up.

Except it's late and Joe and he are Not Talking, so he settles for draining an entire gallon of milk and resuming his search for _full_.

At three AM, he finds it – and, because he's not a complete animal, he Flashes to the nearest twenty-four hour outlet, piles in as much food as he remembers taking, and reloads the shelves and fridge.

His pockets are lighter but his chest feels heavier, and when he finally lies down he cannot sleep.

He's showered by sunrise and out the door before either Joe or Iris wake up.

. o .

It's only ten o'clock, but hunger gnaws at him, wolf-teeth snapping bones in search of _more-more-more._ It's difficult to ignore the low snarls of dissatisfaction as Barry's stomach growls, but it's harder still to push back against the increasingly distracting urge to find _food_.

It's one of the most basic drives of multicellular life: eat when hungry. Ignoring it is like holding his breath for too long: he feels lightheaded by the end of it, unsteady, craving what he needs.

He wonders if this is just his new normal or if he's going through some sort of speed-related growth spurt, if – god forbid – it'll get worse before it levels off. If it ever levels off.

When Joe shows up, Barry doesn't speak. He doesn't need to: Joe doesn't wait for cordialities to gives him a new case. Barry stills, turning to look at him because did he just say _Stagg?_

 _This isn't a coincidence_.

He doesn't know where the answers lie yet, but there _has_ to be a connection between their armed thieves and the murder.

 _This is getting out of hand_.

And it's not his case – as Joe pointedly reminds him, telling him to _stay there_ instead of letting him tag along – but he can't push it away.

 _It's not your business. Let the police handle it._

When Iris shows up, he listens because he has to, cringing when he remembers they were supposed to meet at Jitters for her article. _I screwed up._

"Don't say you're sorry," Iris says, shutting him down, "I know you're sorry. What I _want_ to know is what the—"

Barry looks at her, considers breaking that promise he made to Joe ( _to hell with Joe_ ), and then he compromises.

He Flashes forward, slowing the world to a barely perceptible crawl, and tells her everything.

"I'm _fast_ now." The thrill of saying it out loud makes him add, "God, I just want to tell you. How I feel. How you make me feel."

He knows it isn't real, not really, but it feels _so good_ to get it out in the open. She's his best friend. She deserves to know; she might even have _answers_ to explain why he can't seem to catch up with anything. At the very least, he knows he can trust her.

But when he comes to a halt, he feels a disarming sense of _don't do it_.

"But I can't," he finishes quietly, concentrating until the world is back up to speed.

"—hell is going on with you," Iris completes.

He's spared the necessity of answering by the machine beeping to announce his DNA results. And then the impossible comes to life.

 _The cells are naïve._

Joe's murder-case just got a lot more interesting.

. o .

As a kid, Barry picked fights. He never threw a punch, but he intervened when he should have kept his head down, his eyes averted. He caught trouble's attention and kept it for years after, eventually becoming more target than observer in the world of getting beaten up by faster, crueler kids.

To Barry, it seems only fitting that fights go exactly as well as an adult as they did back then.

The only difference is that adults kick harder.

He's sore enough when he hobbles back to Star Labs that he submits to Caitlin's insistent antibacterial treatment of the abrasions along his face if not a full exam – he's tired of being vulnerable in front of them. Besides, he heals fast: anything under the suit will be gone in a few hours. Bruises heal.

The abrasions on his face are already rapidly healing – _it won't hurt much longer_ – but reality sits like a hard lump in his throat.

 _You're not a hero._

 _You're just a young man who was struck by lightning_.

God, he's so stupid.

He's not a hero. Taking a nap for nine months and waking up with the ability to run three hundred miles an hour doesn't make him something special.

Oliver was wrong. _It chose the wrong person._

Oliver was never struck by lightning: Oliver came to power on his own, fighting for it, training for it, working with it until he was _unstoppable_.

Barry got his ass handed to him.

Because he _doesn't_ know how to fight and he has no training. He doesn't even know how to work with the crushing reality that everything he knows is _wrong_.

 _(That episode was months ago. That's the new intern. Oh, yeah, they broke up._

 _You missed winter – spring and summer, too. But, hey, at least you didn't miss any classes. But you did miss a lot of cases. Countless conversations, faces coming and going, everything evolving slowly and continuously without you. Don't worry, the buildings didn't change – but everything in them did. You did, too. Your shirts clothes don't fit the same way, you can't understand that there is a time gap between the Mardon brothers robbing a bank and taking down Clyde Mardon. You don't know why it's cold because it's getting colder because it's supposed to be moving into spring._

 _You can't sleep at night because you're going to wake up nine months later and someone will have fucking died, God only knows what will happen this time. Except you didn't hear. Well, there have been a lot of strange things happening in Central City and dozens of people have died. Seventeen people died that night and Chyre-died-too. Chyre, whose last conversation revolved around a farm that won't matter because Clyde Mardon dies, too._ )

Barry watches Cisco clean the suit, wincing when Caitlin dabs stinging medication along the abrasions on his face, and he can't help but think, _How is this real?_

He's always chased the impossible.

But he never thought he would _become_ the impossible.

Turns out – it's a lot different than he thought it would be.

 _Take it back_.

They start talking about Danton Black, the formerly peaceable biogeneticist who worked for Stagg turned murderer, but Barry almost doesn't care. Even Cisco's delighted, "Meet Captain Clone" can't pull him back.

 _This was a mistake._

He walks out on them, intending to break it off cleanly – but Caitlin asks, "Where are you going?"

There's such genuine concern there and Barry thinks, _I'm sorry_. "Joe was right," he says, turning back to look at them. "I'm in way over my head. Yeah, I'm fast – but I am no warrior."

 _Lightning never chose you, Oliver._

 _You chose to be a hero._

 _You become one._

"I can barely fight one metahuman, let alone six," he says, hating how true it is, how running fast is only useful if you have something to run to. Otherwise it's just flight – getting away from everything, leaving people to suffer because he can't stop what's hurting them.

He turns to leave, thinking, _This is a job for the police._

They'll solve those cases. He can help them. But not from here – not like this.

"Barry," Wells says, and he turns to look at him because it's reflexive. _The Harrison Wells?_ It's-too-good-to-be-true. "I understand." _How could you?_ Then: "Today was a setback."

Barry can't help but see the chair. Think how often that phrase has been repeated in a mirror, in the privacy of his own mind.

 _Today was a setback._

But then Dr. Wells finishes, "But any grand enterprise has them. And we can never learn to fly without crashing a few times."

And Barry knows, _I can't be responsible for this. I didn't earn it. I'm not strong enough._

"This wasn't a grand enterprise, Dr. Wells," he tells them, wondering when they'll all get their head out of the clouds and stop acting like taking down one metahuman ( _Joe shot him, not you_ ) is a promise for victory in the future. It was an accident. And this? "This was a mistake."

He leaves them, but the lightning does not leave _him_ , so he surrenders to it with a mute, _All right, all right._

It's not fully alive, but it's not fully inanimate, either. Pressed to choose between the two, he could describe it only as _the lightning_.

When he runs, it is all that there is. And it is all that he is, too, in a sense.

If nothing else, that Other, that _hint-of-something-greater_ , takes him and says _run away._

So he does.

And when he runs, he knows that he might not be strong enough to handle this – but whatever lies under his skin, _that_ is.

And it will not surrender so easily.

. o .

At Jitters, he realizes for the first time since waking up from a coma that Eddie Thawne is nine months older than Barry remembers him.

And Barry sees how confident but relaxed he is around Iris, how he doesn't swagger around the office with a picture-perfect smile, how he hasn't staked a claim to charm his way to the top. He's unobtrusively _present_ , providing companionship without asserting it, being there in the same way the sun fans across his desk at a certain time of day, clockwork and congenial. Standing across from them, Barry realizes there isn't much to actively dislike about him.

 _You hate the idea of him,_ he thinks, realizing how bitter he actually is and feeling guilt curl up in his chest, _not who he actually is._

Desiring to make amends if not new starts, he says, "Nice work, Eddie."

And he thinks, _Why are you compromising?_ because the bitterness won't quite go away. Especially when Iris affectionately puts a hand on Eddie's arm and Barry realizes that he's number two on the list of people she loves.

Eddie demurs, insisting that it was just: "Right place, right time."

But Barry has to be equally insistent. "No, you were a real hero today." Because he couldn't save anyone – could barely save himself – but Eddie had saved someone's life. A man got to walk another day because of him.

 _I can't hate him._

"CCPD still has a killer on the loose," Eddie says, neither accepting nor denying the compliment. A compromise. "I should get back to the precinct," he adds. He kisses Iris goodbye, walking out and squeezing Barry's shoulder in passing, a _thanks, buddy_ that doesn't need words.

Barry doesn't speak, still trying to shock-absorb all of it – for the first time, it seems.

 _His name is Eddie._

 _Iris and he are dating._

 _It's been nine months. A lot has changed._

"So, did you just come here for caffeine," Iris asks, "or are you going to tell me what's really going on with you?"

 _I'm fast now._

Barry says, "Still have to write an article?"

Iris arches both eyebrows. "Don't you have that report to write?"

 _Which one?_

They all blur together. ( _A lot of things do that, now._ )

"No, it's – that one's fine." Backtracking slowly, he adds, "I mean, if this is a bad time, that's –"

Iris says, "No, actually." And a slight smile quirks her lips. "Better late than never, right?"

Barry exhales, thinking, _In theory._

He smiles. "Better late than never," he echoes.

. o .

Food makes him feel better.

Talking with _Iris_ makes him feel better.

But the return of something resembling normalcy also makes him feel guiltier. The magnitude of the secrets he's keeping from her weigh on him. Everything he _isn't_ telling Caitlin and Cisco stands out.

 _So, I know you've known me for nine months, but I've known you for three days and I'm still just trying to wrap my head around this whole concept of being alive again and maybe I just need time to process._

Dr. Wells just – _knows_. That it's a transition. That nothing goes back to normal.

He looks at Barry like he can see right through him.

Barry looks at Iris and thinks, _What if it could?_

Just – ignore it. Let it _go_. Put down the mantle and say, "I'm not a hero. And I'm never going to be one."

Everything could go back to _normal_.

Desire _aches_ in him, giving him the strength to tell her the most cowardly thought he's ever had.

"I thought I had to do something. Something I thought was important. But then I found out I'm not very good at it."

 _I tried. I failed._

 _It's still here, Iris. I still_ have _this – incredible gift. And I don't deserve it_.

Aware of the stack of empty plates in front of him, at the mountains of paperwork waiting for him, and the thousands of hours of _living_ he has to catch up on, he knows it's an empty claim.

 _I can't win._

Pushing _that_ thought aside, he refocuses – because he _has_ been kind of a jerk. Distant. Not talking when talking used to be all he ever _did_. He talked about possibilities he couldn't make actualities, futures he didn't have, things he was looking forward to, cases he had to solve, people he had just met, cities he wanted to travel to, anything – from the mundane to the extraordinary, from _where am I going?_ to _what if the impossible existed?_

He talked about the future his entire _life_.

And on the day it arrived, he fell silent for nine months.

 _Maybe you should start listening._

Which is why he asks if Iris has a topic in mind and startles when she _lights up_ , introducing him to this crazy-new-thing and not seeing the way his heart sinks in his chest because there's a red streak on the screen in front of him and this-is-his- _life_.

Then Caitlin calls him and he's about to politely tell her that it's really late and he's really tired and could we not hash this out tonight? But she says, "You need to get to Star Labs _right now_ " and the genuine _fear_ in her voice electrifies him.

 _Go._

He barely explains why he needs to leave to Iris, stumbling over his feet and an apology, babbling something about an unexpected case, and as soon as he's out of sight he takes _off_.

. o .

 _I'm not a hero_ , Barry thinks, mid-run.

 _But you can't hurt my friends_ , he vows, sliding to a halt in front of Danton Black, a wall between them.

And it occurs to him in that moment that maybe this is where Oliver's courage comes from.

 _Threaten Diggle. Threaten Felicity._

 _Watch what happens._

Protectiveness rumbles like thunder in his chest, irrepressible. Even when the initial surge dies off – _it's fine, everything's fine_ – he looks at them and can't shake the urge to step in front of them, to keep himself between the fake-metahuman and them.

 _They couldn't go after them before,_ Barry thinks, _and they still can't, now._

 _But I_ can.

A plan coalesces and Barry thinks, _This is crazy._

Then Black _moves_ and Joe gets him on the ground before Barry can move.

"Any more of them?" he asks.

Caitlin says, "Nope" and there's a wide-eyed surprise to her tone.

"Why did it start moving?" Barry demands, turning on Wells because Wells always has the answer.

Wells doesn't disappoint. "Prime. The prime is on the move. I guess this one heard the summons to battle."

 _I am no warrior._

But looking around the room, Barry thinks, _But for them, I could be._

Joe says, "I know where he was summoned to. Stagg Industries."

Barry tries and fails to hide his surprise because: "You should call it in."

Joe looks at him and for a moment Barry sees the same man who knelt in the grass the night Clyde Mardon died and said, "Barry." Who reached out like he couldn't believe it was him, a hand on his shoulder, and repeated, " _Barry._ "

Oddly choked up, Barry had replied, "It's okay."

"The police can't fight this," Joe says, and it's the unmovable man sinking to his knees in the face of the impossible, supplicating and surprised, relieved and _astounded_. Because this is real. This is not theoretical. And this – this is something they're going to have to learn to live with. "What Black's become, what Mardon became – beyond me. Maybe way beyond them, too. The only person it's not beyond – is you. You gotta do this. I get it. So for once in your life, do what I tell you to do: go stop him."

It's going to take time. It's not going to be easy.

But with Joe _supporting_ him – Barry feels the strength he needs to stand, hugging him back because the suit is cold but Joe doesn't _care_.

 _This is who we are_ , Barry thinks, looking at the suit.

 _A hero._

. o .

He gets to prove it for exactly sixty seconds.

Panting but satisfied, Barry tells them that _it's over_.

Then Black sprints for a window and throws himself over the ledge.

Barry thinks _no no no no no_ but his hands are only so strong and his grip is awkward and he is _straining_ with every fiber of his being but Black is too heavy, deadweight, and then a second arm sprouts painstakingly from his forearm and yanks Barry's grip off.

He hits the ground twelve stories below with a muffled _thud_.

Barry stares, dazed, at his own palm, still warm from the desperate grip, feeling the lightning like an _animal_ under his skin because _you let him go you let him go you let him go_.

He sinks out of sight, pressed against the wall, back of his fist against his mouth, trying to quell the howling misery welling up in his chest.

. o .

It's only a quiet voice saying, " _Barry? Everything okay?_ " that finally captures his attention.

Drawing in a deep, shuddering breath and wiping his face, he hits the comm and says in a surprisingly blank tone, "Black is dead. He jumped out a window."

There's silence for a long moment. At last, Dr. Wells says, " _Come back to Star Labs_."

Barry shudders, trying to think about facing the light of day when all he can hear is that _thud._

Except there are sirens in the background and yeah, okay, he needs to _go_.

Gathering up his courage, he pushes himself to his feet and takes off.

. o .

Two of Cisco's amped up protein bars later, Barry can breathe again.

Sitting on a gurney, he's surprised how tired he is, but Cisco tells him _you clocked four hundred on the way home_ and Barry wonders if he _isn't_ going through the equivalent of a superhero growth spurt. He's getting faster; more restless, too. As fatigued as his muscles are, his mind is awake, compartmentalizing things, reordering the entire system, redefining what is _okay_ and _not okay_.

In their midst, he realizes two things.

 _They're okay._

 _I'm okay._

And from then on, it's _are they okay?_ above all else.

He can live with the torments and triumphs of his own life; he has a storm, has _the lightning_ to protect him. And they have him.

 _Make it count,_ he thinks, standing alongside them as they watch the news. Looking around the room, he's struck by the new reality: _We can be a team._

"We were all struck by that lightning," he tells them. _We were all changed that night. We were all chosen for something greater._

 _We are never going back to before. But we can choose what we move towards._

And it leaves something warm in his chest, a sense of _purpose_ , of _rightness_ , and he knows that he will do everything, _everything_ he has to in order to be worth inclusion.

. o .

Joe brings him pizza.

It's both an apology and a promise, recognition that wherever they go from here on out, it won't be the same.

But they'll adjust.

"And then we're gonna get your father out of prison. Together," Joe finishes.

Barry can't speak, aware that for the first time in fourteen years someone finally _believes_ his story.

Joe didn't see the storm in that room, but he sees it in Barry – sees the _impossible_. It's a lot to process – for both of them: _I was gone for nine months, but you were still here_ – but it's also something to build on, a foundation for the future.

So he says, "Joe, what I said about you not being my father—"

"Barry, I know." Joe holds up his hands, conceding, "I'm not your father."

"You're right, you're not." The bluntness of the response is worth it just for the way Joe looks at him, surprised. He keeps his expression pointedly flat as he says, "You're just . . . the man who kept me fed and in clothes." Smiling a little in spite of himself, he continues, "Who sat beside my bed at night until I fell asleep because I was afraid of the dark. Helped me with my homework. You taught me how to _drive_ and _shave_ and you dropped me off at college." Unable to hide the pride in his voice, he adds quietly, "Sounds a lot like a dad to me."

Joe doesn't speak, but the way he smiles, reaching up to hold back his own response – it's all Barry needs.

. o .

Barry knows he's not a hero – yet.

Maybe he never will be.

But what he _does_ know?

Reuniting a six-year-old with her mom is worth a little smoke inhalation. Stopping a few bullets from hitting their intended targets is worth a couple boxes of pizza. Saving people is worth being a rumor.

Not knowing where he's going is worth the opportunity to find it.


End file.
